


Sputter

by bigbootsmanofwar



Series: Wax [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bottom Derek, Cheating, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hale Family Feels, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 10:36:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigbootsmanofwar/pseuds/bigbootsmanofwar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'He stays quiet, because if he speaks, he'll try to tell Stiles to leave, and the words will only get caught in his throat, and come out mangled and ineffective, and he will look pathetic. So he doesn't speak. He trails his fingers through Stiles' hair, and tries not to hate himself too much for not sending him away. At his core, he's a selfish being, and he needs Stiles more than he thinks he needs anything. He should give him up. He won't.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sputter

By the time the end of summer comes, Derek thinks that Laura isn’t coming back. The knowledge leaves an ache in his chest he can’t quite shake, because it feels like losing her all over again. Except, no, it’s not as bad as it was the first time, because this time, he has Stiles, and Stiles doesn’t seem to ever leave him alone. Stiles is there even when Derek doesn’t want him to be. Stiles has taken up residence in his bed, and he doesn’t ever seem to want to leave it. Derek’s given up trying to make him. It’s easier to let the boy spread himself out and open, easier to forget that Laura is dead and gone when he’s letting Stiles slide his fingers inside him, when his back is arching off the mattress and the only thoughts he can muster are  _yes please more_.

If Stiles senses anything in him, if he notices the lingering looks Derek gives him sometimes, when he’s mentally willing a flicker, and consequently, if Stiles notices the film of guilt that Derek disappears under after, he says nothing. Derek is grateful. He doesn’t want to explain it to the boy. Not because he doesn’t think Stiles will understand, because he thinks if anyone was going to understand him seeing hallucinations of his dead sister,  it will be Stiles, but because he has a feeling in his gut, unshakeable, that if he tells _anyone_ , the credibility of every scrap of comfort Laura has ever offered him will evaporate.

Scott has long since stopped making that slightly disturbed face whenever he can smell Derek on Stiles, and though Derek found himself privately amused whenever it happened, he’s half glad that it’s become normal for the human to smell so entirely of him. And, he supposes, though he can’t smell it, he must smell of Stiles. He likes the thought more than he should.

Isaac, on the other hand, has only ever given him the knowing smirk whenever he comes home. He never says anything about it, but Derek knows he’s heard them. Stiles isn’t exactly subtle. Derek can remember the surprised yelp when Isaac emerged from his room and caught Stiles nude in the kitchen for the first time. They joke about it now, together, trying their hardest to make Derek blush with their combined efforts. He doesn’t protest as much he ought to.

Some nights, when he’s lounging on the sofa with the Beta, usually with either Isaac’s head or his feet in his lap, and who ever would have thought the kid who still had thin, white scars curved long over his skin would be so casually affectionate, Derek imagines telling him about Laura. He almost gets it off the tip of his tongue a few times, but in the end, he never manages it. Isaac doesn’t need the burden of knowing his Alpha’s mind is fragmented. Broken. They’ll stay together, sometimes scenting, sometimes biting one another, and more than once shoving each other off furniture. It’s the closest thing he has to his friendship with Laura. The panic that arises when he thinks of Stiles getting hurt, now normal, begins to extend to Isaac. There’s two in his family now.

***************************************

There’s three in his family now. Derek doesn’t understand, when he sees Cora in the bank vault.  He thinks she’s another hallucination. His mind has cracked again, and out comes seeping another memory, manifested to help him. Or hurt, because Cora looks at him and his chest damn near tears in two. But she looks older. She’s so much older than he remembers. The Cora who died in the fire was his little sister, eleven years old and all gangly limbs, bared teeth, trying to emulate Laura. This Cora is a teenager. And she _recognises_  him. And the others can see her.

This Cora is real. Alive. And his world splits in half again.

Laura’s not there to see it, and Derek doesn’t understand how he can have one sister back, his little sister, the girl who used to curl up by his side and watch him do his homework and make him swear not to tell anyone when she fell asleep on his shoulder, and still be so fucking miserable.  _So_  miserable. He should be happy. Cora is alive and back with him, and she moves in, and bitches at Stiles, paying no heed to his tendency to forego full clothing. He feels so happy some moments he thinks he might overflow with it.

But then other moments, all he feels is misery, and it’s like he’s gone right back to the start. Before Stiles’ little flicker had brought him some twisted sense of peace, and gaining Cora has made him lose Laura. But he shoves these thoughts aside. They don’t have any place in his life. He has a family now, he shouldn’t feel miserable. He should feel blessed. Even if Peter is psychotic, and Derek feels himself hurt a little every time he looks at the man, he’s still there. Sometimes he looks like the man he used to be, Derek’s smart ass Uncle who liked to stir up trouble at the dinner table, all dry wit and inappropriate jokes, teaching the pups how to swear and laughing when Talia told him to behave.

Stiles seems to like Cora. He thinks. They bitch and snark at each other a lot, but then, Stiles bitches and snarks at everyone, and as it turns out, so does Cora now. Whatever she’d been through on her own, those six years, and she won’t tell him, she refuses, it has made her hard and tough and ruthless. He finds himself proud when she can match Stiles’ easy banter and cut through his bullshit.

But when they’re not arguing with each other, or ganging up on him, Cora telling Stiles embarrassing as fuck stories from when they were kids, stories that sometimes make his chest ache so much he has to leave the room, they get along well. He realises sometime in the middle of the second week back at school, when Cora’s laughing because Stiles can’t figure out radical expressions, their schoolbooks spread all over the table, that this is the closest he’ll get to introducing Stiles to his family. And it’s gone better even than he can imagine. They mesh well together. They can sit quietly together at night, when Stiles decides he’s staying over, consulting no one but the fridge about his decision, and pick apart the plots on the television he’s bought purely to keep Stiles’ mouth shut.

He has no right to be this happy, when he watches them together. Laura has disappeared altogether, and when he closes his eyes, it’s not her he sees. It’s not even Stiles. It’s Erica. His nightmares, which returned after they pulled Cora out of that vault, are dotted with the Beta’s body. No one else mentions her, but he knows the absence of her hangs heavy on the rest of the pack, too. In a way, he’s glad no one says anything, because he doesn’t know what to say. Apologies settle in the back of his mind, countless versions, different words, but all the same sentiment, one he’ll never express to anyone.

_I’m sorry I couldn’t save you._

Boyd is quiet. Distant. More so than usual. Derek wants to reach out to him like an Alpha should, he wants to offer comfort, because there was something between those two, he knows it. He’s not exactly sure what it was, whether they found solace in each other’s friendship, the way he and Isaac have done, or whether it was more. He suspects more. He never asks. Boyd is his, but he doesn’t feel like it sometimes. It’s as if when Erica died, he lost Boyd too. The feeling lessens when Isaac shows up with Boyd shows up at his side, and he’s glad they’re still friends, but he feels it. His Beta is broken. He can’t fix it.

He regrets scaring Isaac, too, but he’s a threat to the boy, and he refuses to hurt that kid. The Alphas will hurt whoever he’s close to, and he saved Isaac for a reason. He won’t get him killed. If only for the selfish reason that he doesn’t know if he can take it if Isaac dies, because of him. Erica weighs heavily enough on him. Isaac will break him.

The tactic works with Isaac, because Derek knows how to push the buttons that will  _make_ it work. It’s a fairly disgusting thing to do, and he hates himself for it even as he’s throwing the glass, at just the right angle to make sure it won’t hit Isaac, not even a shard. He’s called Mrs. McCall beforehand, ensuing in awkward conversation in which only his sincerity gets her to agree on letting Isaac stay with them. Some nights, he stands guard over the McCall house when his guilt gets to be too much.

Thing is, the same thing doesn’t work with Stiles. He’s gotten Isaac to safety, and he’s attempting to do the same with Stiles. Stiles is important, and he knows that will be clear to any predator, not just the Alphas. Stiles doesn’t ever not smell like him now, and he’s left enough marks on the boy to make clear he’s taken. Marks Stiles laughs about, and leaves as many of his own, and more. Derek thinks he bites down harder in his frustration that Derek’s marks heal. On occasion, he purposefully slows down his own healing to leave a hickey or two purple and visible on his neck, because it makes Stiles’ lips curve into a self-satisfied smirk whenever someone flinches at the sight of them.

He tries to be distant, the way lovers (lovers? He supposes that’s what he can call them, but the word is sour and uncomfortable on his tongue. They’re more than lovers) are when they’re trying to end a relationship. Or so he gathers from the shit Stiles makes him watch. He stops asking about Stiles’ day, stops inquiring as to how the enforced diet the Sheriff is on is going, stops running his fingers through Stiles’ hair when he passes by him on the way to the kitchen. He doesn’t initiate any kind of sex, and forces himself as unresponsive as he can possibly be when Stiles kisses him, tugs his shirt off, trails open mouthed kisses down his body.

He’s hoping Stiles will catch on and stop coming over. He’s hoping Stiles will think Derek doesn’t want him anymore ( _he does, he does, he does_ ), and will stay away from him.

He should know better than to hope by now.

He’s jerked out of his slightly self-loathing stupor, sitting on the sofa and thinking vaguely about how pushing Stiles away means pushing away any chance that Laura will come back (she won’t) when he hears the almighty thump against his door, and he snaps to attention, battle ready. Is this it? Have they come back to force him into joining their pack? If it means no one else gets hurt, he thinks he’ll do whatever it takes.

But they wouldn’t  _knock_. Violently. Derek approaches the door carefully, before sliding the thing open, his face a rare, clear show of surprise. Stiles has actually savaged his door with that fucking baseball bat, and the boy is standing before him, eyes burning. He knows he’s in trouble. He’s in big fucking trouble. He won’t admit to the shiver he suppresses.

"What the hell do you think you’re doing?" he growls, trying to look angry. Really, he’s shocked, and dreading what’s to come. He doesn’t want to hurt Stiles to make him go away, but it looks like that’s where this is going. Stiles’ heart is beating threefold fast, and his fingers grip the bat so tightly his knuckles are white. Derek can smell the anger emanating from him.

The grip loosens, however, and the bat falls to Stiles’ side as the boy pushes past him, and that’s how Derek knows he’s not getting assaulted tonight.

"We’ve gotta talk, Alpha," he spits out, rounding on Derek once he’s a safe distance into the loft, where it makes it hard for Derek to throw him out without physical coercion. He likes that nickname, usually, because Stiles seems to like to make fun of his power position, especially when he’s got Derek entirely at his mercy, but now it’s cold and harsh slipping from Stiles’ lips.

"We don’t have a thing to talk about." A lie. Derek could tell the truth, and they’d have plenty to discuss, but he’s half killed himself pushing Stiles away, and he won’t make that all be for nothing.

Stiles’ lips twist into a sneer, and his fingers flex around the handle of the bat.

"I know exactly what you’re doing," he says, no small amount of heat in his voice. Derek’s shoulders square a little, waiting for a fight.

Nothing comes.

Stiles drops the bat, the wood hitting the concrete floor with a dull thud. He steps forward, and Derek can stop him, he knows, but he doesn’t. His limbs are in paralysis again, like the first time he saw Laura, but there’s nothing here except Stiles this time.

He doesn’t protest when the human wraps his arms around his neck, stands on his toes and buries his face in Derek’s neck. He’s always been pissed off he can’t scent like the other wolves can, but he tries his best anyway. Derek should protest, but instead, he curls his own arms around Stiles’ waist and holds him there, silent.

"Thank you," Stiles murmurs into his neck, and Derek feels it more than hears it, really, the brush of lips against his skin forming words. The words seep through his skin, past his blood, past the muscle, piercing the bone and settling there. They don’t go away. He knows just what Stiles is thanking him for. Thanking him for trying to protect him. They don’t need to say it. They both know.

He stays quiet, because if he speaks, he’ll try to tell Stiles to leave, and the words will only get caught in his throat, and come out mangled and ineffective, and he will look pathetic. So he doesn’t speak. He trails his fingers through Stiles’ hair, and tries not to hate himself too much for not sending him away. At his core, he’s a selfish being, and he needs Stiles more than he thinks he needs anything. He should give him up. He won’t.

They stay like that for a few minutes, Stiles’ breath coming out hard at first, but evening out and fanning against Derek’s neck, warm and slow and comforting, proof that Stiles is still alive, and still willing to waste his time here with a man who is more broken than he knows, and going to get him killed.

He manages not to yelp, though it’s a very close thing, when he feels a sharp sting at the back of his neck, and he realises Stiles has pinched his skin between two fingers, and isn’t relenting in the slightest.

"You ever pull something as stupid as that again, I’ll shove wolfsbane down your throat and watch you choke and seize to death, do you understand me?" he hisses, and Derek doesn’t think he’s ever heard the kid this angry in the whole time he’s known him.

He tries to nod, but it only makes Stiles squeeze harder, so he opens his mouth, clears his throat and speaks, forcing his words to come out.

"I understand. If you want to risk your life, you can. It’s your choice." He makes sure Stiles knows what he’s getting himself into just with that statement, but ensures the placation as well. He’s gotten good at placating Stiles.

"You’re damn right it’s my choice. And I  _choose_  to be here. So you better fucking start liking it again,” Stiles shoots back, but Derek can see the vulnerability flash in his eyes for a moment, and realises that behind this bravado, Stiles has thought, even for a moment, that Derek doesn’t want him.

He’s succeeded.

He never wants to do it again.

"I love you."

First time he’s said it, aloud, anyway, and he can see it’s the right thing to say. Stiles kisses him. They don’t stop kissing until they’re both almost passed out. Between the necessity for air, which they both resent, Stiles returns the sentiment more times than Derek can count.

********************************************************

The first time he saves Jennifer, in the boiler room, he thinks nothing of the act, other than he’d done his job as Alpha and not let his Betas hurt anyone. She slips from his mind the moment he leaves the high school, unimportant. He’s more concerned about the tasks ahead of him.

The fight changes things. The Alphas are stronger than he’d ever anticipated, and their little strike against them had done absolutely nothing. They’d taken one out, Ennis, and not even one of the strongest. Derek had thought perhaps they might be done with this threat at the end of it. He can’t believe how wrong he was.

For a minute, he thinks he’s dead, and the feeling he gets now is so unlike when the poison was taking over him that he almost chokes on it. He’s  _fighting_ , hard, he does not want to die. He doesn’t want to die. He has family. He has Cora, he has Isaac, he has Stiles. They need him. He has a pack. The pack needs him. He can’t die and leave them behind.

But if he goes to them for help, the Alphas will hunt them all down, and Derek will be too weak to stop them from destroying his family, tearing it apart. He can go to no one he cares about.

He finds the woman. Jennifer. She will owe him, and he can only hope she won’t turn him away, or turn him into the hospital. It’s a risk, but his pups (Stiles started calling them that, did it so often that it sunk into Derek’s head, and now he can’t get rid of it), are all out of town, and he needs to fix himself before they return. He needs to protect them.

She helps. She takes him home, and she babbles in a way that reminds him of Stiles. He can smell her arousal, but it means nothing to him, because his body is almost killing itself trying to heal as quickly as it can. He has no time for sex now.

As she is cleaning his wounds, and he thinks vaguely that he will have to thank her for this, after he gets back to Stiles, after he makes sure Scott is alright, when he has ensured the safety of his pack, he thinks his vision is sliding in and out. It wouldn’t be unusual, he’s in a fair amount of pain.

It’s not. It’s adjusting to another body in the room, hovering over Jennifer’s shoulder, watching him with a sympathetic expression.

Laura.

He stops breathing.

That’s a bad idea. Jennifer looks at him with something akin to concern, he thinks, but he’s not paying attention to her. He is in no way paying attention to her, because Laura is back, and watching over him, Laura has come back to look after him after so fucking long of being away. And the only thought he can manage to muster: Stiles isn’t here. She’s always come to him because of Stiles. It has always been Stiles who’s brought her back to him.

Except this time, it’s Jennifer. And this makes no sense. It’s  _Stiles_. Stiles is the one who does this for him. Stiles is the kid who flickers. Derek doesn’t understand why Laura would come back now. Is it because he’s dying? It seems like the sort of thing she would come back for, regardless of Stiles or not. But he can feel himself healing, however minutely, and he can still hear Jennifer’s chatter in his ear, even as he watches Laura intently.

"That was a stupid move and you know it," she says to him, and for a moment she looks just like Talia, the spitting image, all harsh face, disapproving tones. Disappointed that his strategy was shit, and he knows it now. It was a stupid idea. But then her face softens, and he hardly notices Jennifer’s hands on him until they’re already there, and she’s leaning over him.

He opens his mouth to speak, to apologise to Laura, but she gives him a smile, that knowing, shit-eating grin, and vanishes, and he is left with a lapful of woman who wants him so bad he can feel himself suffocating under the force of it. His wolf cries out, low in his chest, and she takes it for a growl, leaning in, bringing their lips together. He is weak, and she is strong, and she tastes good, and he is hardening. And maybe. If he lets her, Laura will come back.

*******************************************

He’s left with an unpleasant, sick hole in the pit of his stomach. No, it’s not a hole. It’s a gaping wound, and it festers and weeps and stays raw and open no matter how much he tries to tell himself that he shouldn’t be guilty.

He knows he should be guilty. He knows that he’s been weak. He knows he’s fucked up, and nothing and no one excuses this. His pack comes home, and he can’t bring himself to face them. To face Stiles. He knows that they must think he’s dead, and he wants to tell them otherwise. More than anything, he wants them to know. He wants to return home to his loft, he wants to curl up on the sofa with Cora under one arm, and Stiles under the other, and he does  _not_  want to think about how much he’s betrayed the kid. Who’s risked his life to be there.

He hasn’t hated himself this much since the fire.

He tells them, eventually. He doesn’t go to see Stiles, much as he wants to. Stiles doesn’t come to see him. Half of him is glad. He doesn’t know if he can look the boy in the eye, especially when there is a voice inside him telling him that returning to Jennifer might mean he could see Laura again.

But then, the bigger part of him is disappointed. The wound tears open further, and he can’t stop it from expanding, the edges growing larger and larger. He would like to brood, as they’ve all made fun of him for countless times. He doesn’t have time to brood. The Alphas don’t relent in the least, and they’re hungry for revenge.

He never imagines that their revenge will hurt so much.

The wound tears him in half. Boyd’s eyes don’t leave his. He watches the light leave them. He feels the surge of power flow into him that he doesn’t want. God, he doesn’t want it. It makes him slightly dizzy, nauseous. He thinks he might throw up. He doesn’t. He watches Boyd’s body hit the concrete, hears the splash, eyes following the ripples in the water.

He’s broken.

The only pain he’s ever felt that this comes close to is losing his family. He barely survived. He doesn’t think he’ll survive this. This is too much. They’ve made a murderer of him. Two times over, he’s been used like this, to kill the people he loves. He can’t take the way it rips at him. Kate had made him fragile, paper thin, easy to tear. This has torn him.

He can feel himself slipping away, and fuck it, he won’t kick anymore. Laura’s not here to order him around, and he’s  _done_  fighting. Why should he try to come back to this? He’s done enough. He’s lost enough. He’s  _hurt_  enough. He’s done. He can’t. He wants it to stop. He needs it to stop, to end, he  _can’t_.

And then he feels the warm weight on his shoulder. He feels the familiar fingers gripping at him, and slowly, very slowly, he hears the heartbeat he’d know from miles away. Stiles’. Erratic and beating threefold too fast, and close. And he comes back to himself. He fights. Because Stiles’ hand is on his shoulder, and he’s there, he came, and he realises. He knows. In an instant. Stiles is why he should fight. Not Laura. He loves Laura, but Laura isn’t  _alive_. And he’s not doing anything stupid, risking this kid, this stupid, immature, amazing kid, for a figment of his imagination.

The others might have already left when he begins to cry. He doesn’t know. He hopes they have. He doesn’t want them seeing this. Boyd lays motionless before him, water pooling around him, and it’s only when he tastes salt that he realises it’s not just water dripping off his face. Stiles stands behind him quietly, hand never moving from his shoulder, not until Derek begins to shake, dry sobs making his body tremble and convulse in a way which is disconcerting to see on a fully grown man.

Stiles is on his knees in the water before Derek can even realise what he’s doing, kneeling in front of him, and wrapping his arms around his shaking shoulders, and Derek is far too gone to even try to stop himself from falling forward, leaning his head against Stiles’ chest and soaking his shirt with tears like a  _child._  Any other time, he would be embarrassed by a display of weakness like this. He hasn’t cried since the fire, and he did not intend to cry again in his lifetime, not if he could help it.

But he can’t help it, and he is crying, and Stiles is holding him and rubbing a hand over his back slowly and murmuring nonsense comforts into his ear that Derek hears, but doesn’t register until hours later.

Hours later when Isaac has quietly come back and helped Stiles begin to mop up some of the water, while Derek sits motionless and useless on the fire escape. Mostly, Stiles has told him that it’s alright, that he’d be alright, which are such blatant lies it makes Derek want to hit something. But Stiles has also murmured to him, countless times, lips brushing over his ear, that it’s not his fault.

And he doesn’t believe it.

Can’t.

But he wants to.

********************************************

They bury Boyd at the Hale house. Beside Laura, beside Erica. They all seem to pale and hesitate when Derek tells them that’s what they’re doing, but to their credit, every single pack member shows up to do it. Allison and Lydia stand by the grave, an arm around each other’s waist. Derek can see the guilt flicker over Allison’s face, and understands. She shot him full of arrows once, tried to kill him. He understands that sickened look on her face.

He sees it in the mirror.

Isaac and Scott have helped him dig the grave. All three of them are sweating by the end of it, covered in soil, but their panting has nothing to do with exhaustion. Derek can feel the grief coming from them, the same as they can feel it from him. It’s stronger from Isaac, and Derek feels his chest constrict further when the Beta’s eyes cloud over as they place Boyd’s body in the ground. 

Peter has been surprisingly respectful. Or, well, quiet, and Derek supposes that’s his equivalent. He stands a fair way from them, like he knows he isn’t one of them, not really, not even if he is pack, and he is family, and Derek does begrudgingly feel some sort of love for him that baffles and infuriates him. Derek almost asks him to leave. But the man is wearing the same look he wore when Derek found his wife’s wedding ring in the rubble of their home.

Derek lets him stay.

They should have known it would be Cora to break. Cora was the closest to him, and none of them can deny it. They spent fuck knew how long trapped together in that vault, the three of them. Losing both her friends has hit her hard. She comes to what Derek is loathe to call a funeral, because none of them bring themselves to  _speak_ , but when Derek hands her a shovel to begin to rebury the grave, she howls, and it’s a noise that pierces Derek to the bone.

He’s not the only one. The entire pack react. Peter winces. Isaac takes a step toward to her, whining softly under his breath, but Scott pulls him back when she bares her teeth. Lydia and Allison lower their eyes, as if they shouldn’t be watching such a private display of grief.

Derek freezes. And Stiles tangles their fingers together, nodding at Cora. Without a word, she takes off into the woods. They hear her howls echoing off the trees.

Derek feels like he should say something. They cover the ground over like nothing has happened, and stand around the grave. Silent. Grief hangs heavy in the air. Derek opens his mouth, but guilt is closing his throat up, suffocating him. Stiles catches the movement and steers him away without a word. He follows.

**********************************

Stiles doesn’t want to leave him alone in the loft. Derek kicks him out eventually, threatening to call the Sheriff and report him for truancy. It shouldn’t work, because they both know Derek’s shit scared of his father (well, not  _scared_. Intimidated), but it does, and he’s left alone to think.

Thinking isn’t a good move. He should not have decided he needed solitary time. Fortunately, Stiles is a pain in his fucking  _ass_ , and he’s going to bitch and moan and gripe about how he’s not even fucking trusted to be alone in his own  _home_ , after this.

When Isaac shows up, entirely out of the blue, alone, Derek strongly suspects Stiles has sent him. As it turns out, he finds out later, he did not. Isaac came on his own.

"I was the one who broke the window. I just let Boyd take the blame," he says in way of greeting when Derek opens the door. Derek blinks, stunned, and Isaac takes the moment to push his way past and inside, still speaking, too fast. "Last year, when you left us all home alone, they were trying to push my buttons and I accidentally shifted, and I broke the window. And Boyd felt bad when you got so pissed off, and he took the blame. It was me," he’s adding, turning back to face a bewildered Derek and sucking in a breath when he was finished.

He looks like hell, and his eyes look slightly wet.

"Are you alright?" It’s a stupid question, because clearly none of them are alright. But he asks it anyway, because it gives Isaac the chance to shake his head.

"I just … needed you to know it wasn’t him. It wasn’t his fault," Isaac replies, and his voice is choked and stuffy and muffled like he’s holding back tears. The Alpha surges up in Derek’s chest, instinct ruling his motions as he crosses the floor and closes the distance between them, enveloping the Beta in his arms, and Isaac falls apart against him, tears staining his shirt much the same way his own stained Stiles.

"It’s alright, come on. It’s OK, Isaac, you’re OK. It’s not your fault," he’s murmuring, and it’s not until he says the words that he realises they’re almost verbatim what Stiles has said to him.

Eventually, Isaac cries himself out, the same way Derek had, and they end up on the sofa in a sick mimicry of the way they used to spend their time, before this. Isaac’s head in his lap, Derek’s fingers stroking absent-mindedly through his hair as they talk.

Mostly, they talk about Boyd and Erica. Derek’s stubborn at first, refusing to speak, so Isaac shares every memory he can summon, about how Erica used to be so damn pleased with her new appearance that she’d dragged him out shopping with her. And how Boyd had quietly muttered insults under his breath when he thought no one was listening, because he was so used to really having no one care enough to listen.

Only when there is a lull in the steady rise and fall of Isaac’s voice, does Derek contribute, and the burst of laughter he elicits from Isaac when he mentions how shocked he’d been when Erica had kissed him is enough to make him keep speaking. Hours pass without them realising it, and they both fall asleep where they are, Derek’s hand still soft and loose in the Beta’s curls.

Stiles and Cora could wake them, when they both return home. They’ve formed a tentative, but steady bond, since she came out of the woods. Stiles was the first one she spoke to, and it was only to tell him to shut up. They take one look at the sleeping wolves and decide letting them stay unconscious is the kindest thing for all involved.

If either Alpha or Beta is surprised to wake up and find a blanket that had previously not been draped over them when they fell asleep, they don’t show it. They wake to the smell of breakfast, and Derek feels surrounded by family again. If only for a moment.

*********************************

Derek begins to think he is a beacon for loss. Which makes sense. Beacon Hills is a beacon for all sorts of supernatural shit that wants to destroy not only him, but everything around him, so hey, why shouldn’t he be a beacon for loss? He’s lost everything he’s cared about at least once. He lost his family. He lost Peter, but regained him again. He doesn’t know how much he actually  _wants_  Peter, but that’s not the point. He’s lost Laura, but she came back. Sort of. He lost Cora, and she really has come back.

Except now she’s going again, and he can’t do a damn thing to stop it. He watches her die, and he’s helpless. She’s dying, his little sister, the one he’d fucking well sworn to protect all over again when she’d come back, and here he is, entirely useless. To be fair, he doesn’t know what he possibly can do.

Jennifer is a slap in the face he suspects he will feel more keenly when this is all over. It’s a shock to find out what she is, that she was using him too, but he doesn’t know why. Isn’t that his long fucking sordid history with women? He shouldn’t be surprised at all. It’s only natural that she would have been using him.

He might be more upset if Cora wasn’t dying. He might feel more betrayed, more hurt, but right now, all he can feel is dread that he will lose his sister again. And guilt. So much guilt. Guilt that is only worsened when Isaac lets loose, and he’s known his Beta can be vicious, is a little hothead, would probably try very hard to tear his throat out if he really wanted to, but he’s never seen it unleashed on him like this.

Every word cuts him deeper, both because he knows they’re true, and because this is _Isaac_  saying them to him. Isaac. Who has never, ever abandoned him. But it sure as hell feels like abandonment when the door slams shut and he’s left alone in the loft doing absolutely nothing. Nothing. He can do nothing. He’s tried. There is  _nothing_  he can do.

Until there is.

There is something he can do. And even if Peter’s just spewing bullshit so Derek will lose his power, the Alpha can’t find it in himself to care. If there is a chance, the slimmest chance in hell, that this will save Cora, then there’s no doubt. He’ll do it.

He means it when he says power doesn’t mean anything to him anymore. It doesn’t. Not that power ever really meant anything to him in the first place. He’s never wanted to be Alpha. He’s never wanted to be the one with this almost worrying, sickening, amount of sheer, raw power inside him. Part of which is Boyd’s, and he never forgets it. He doesn’t want it.

The only doubt that crosses his mind is when he thinks of Stiles. It’s shallow, it’s childish, it’s probably an offense to the kid, and to everyone around him. But will Stiles still want him when he’s no longer an Alpha? He tries not to let it irritate him, burrow its way into his mind, because he certainly can’t let it stop him, even if it does bother Stiles, but it works away at him anyway.

Stiles doesn’t seem to just want power. He doesn’t seem to be drawn to it. But then, neither did Kate, and she’d been using him to destroy his power. Not that he’s comparing Stiles to Kate. Even in their worst arguments, and they’ve had some pretty bad ones, he will never compare Stiles to Kate. It’s unthinkable.

Peter seems to understand him, for once. It’s a little disconcerting, having the man look at him and understand. Understand him the way he did when he was a kid. Understand why Derek was upset (usually because Laura had been throwing him around, or when he had inadvertently disappointed Talia). But the man looks at him now, and he sees everything Derek had been scared of.

He’s not comforting the way his mother might have been. He doesn’t touch Derek, or offer him so much as a soft smile. Derek’s half glad for this. A soft smile on Peter would look like a grimace, he thinks. Or a smirk. Both manage to settle on his face more naturally than any kind of smile. He looks from Derek to Cora, and stays where he is, slouching by the window, as if he somewhere better to be here than by his dying niece and his nephew falling to bits. Derek doesn’t know why Peter has stayed with them this long, but he gets the impression that whatever it is, it’s what makes him speak next.

"The boy isn’t going to fall out of love with you just because you’re not an Alpha," and the words are quiet, and there is only a small amount of smugness in them, much less than Derek would expect from him, especially in this situation, where Derek is about to lose the exact power that Peter had lost, and so despised them for it.        

He looks up, and Peter is looking right at him. He can see his mother for a moment in the older man’s eyes, just a glint of her, and that shouldn’t surprise him as much as it does. They were related, after all, and Peter was not always this twisted, mangled thing he is now. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing escapes him, and he doesn’t know what it would be even if his vocal cords hadn’t failed him.

"And if you don’t do it, it won’t matter anyway, because Cora will die, and you’ll hate yourself for it," Peter added when it became clear that Derek wasn’t about to speak. His voice was back to that same lazy drawl it always was lately; the uninterested, bored rise and fall that indicated he had no feelings about this whatsoever. It was only the fact that he’d even said the words that betrayed him.

In the end, Peter is right. Of course he is. And Derek gives it up, and every second of the self-doubt is worth it, because Cora coughs and shudders and opens her eyes, and she’s alive, and for once, he’s done something right. He’s helped. He hasn’t hurt. Isaac’s words cut him deep, stung at him, but their pain lessen now because he’s proved him wrong, he’s  _done_  something, and no one can take that from him, because Cora is alive and safe, and he’s protected his family.

What little family he has left.

************************************************

After.

After it all, when it’s all done, and everyone is dead, Derek is numb.

His family is alive. Isaac is alive. Cora. Peter. Stiles. The pack. All alive, and yet, there’s an ache in him, one that shouldn’t rightfully be there. Everything has come right, and there was pain, there were losses, but no one important to him died, and he should count this as a win.

He’s aware how badly he handled Stiles’ decision. Oh, he’s so aware. He couldn’t have handled it worse. When they finally saw fit to tell him that  _his_  Stiles, his … he didn’t even know what to call him (mate?), had died, he flipped. Snapped. Completely went off the fucking rails, crashed and burned on the side of the tracks, all in full view of the people looking to him.

They said it like it was nothing.

"Oh, we died. Technically. Not for very long, and you know, we’re all good now. Worked, didn’t it?"

16 hours. Not long at all. Derek remembered spitting that out, looking to Deaton, holding him responsible, pinning him against the wall. Letting himself shift, letting his teeth brush just shy of sinking into skin. He could smell the man’s fear, and soaked it up. Good. He wanted him to be scared. Because Derek had been fucking terrified, and they had brushed it off as nothing. Like an afterthought to tell him of their  _death_. 

Of course, the real mistake had been lashing out when he felt a hand on his shoulder, trying to tug him back. He ought to have realised that there was no way it could have been a wolf, because the strength wasn’t there, and only a human could be weaker than him now (Beta, he was a Beta, weaker), but it didn’t register, and he swung back, arm making contact with Stiles’ face with a resounding smack that had every wolf in the room wince.

He could smell the blood that was beginning to pour from Stiles’ nose, and the metallic coating on his tongue snapped him back to reality, looking down at the boy, knocked hard on his ass onto the concrete floor of the vet clinic, watching him with wide, slightly fearful eyes.

Of course he did the cowardly thing. Of course he did.

Of course he ran.

And ran.

And ran.

Until the only person who could possibly catch up to him, did.

Laura.

He’d run into the woods, bypassing the ruins of the Hale house, much as he would have liked to hole up in there and hide, he knew they would come looking for him there, and kept running. It was only when he had collapsed somewhere far away, miles away, that he let himself catch his breath, and on the second exhale, there she was.

Pissed. As Hell.

"What the  _fuck_  do you think you’re doing, you stupid fucking little  _boy_?” she snarls, charging toward him, and despite knowing she wasn’t real, wasn’t there, Derek backs up anyway, skittering back and away until he’s pressed up against a tree, and her face inches from his.

"I .. Laura. I fucked up," he manages, eyes wide and fearful, like he  _was_  a little boy again. She scoffs, audible, loud, and met his eye, a challenge he’d never win. He ducks his head, submitting.

"You’re damn right you fucked up. Get back there and look after that kid," she counters, and for a moment, just a moment, Derek is startled out of the scared, miserable reverie he’d been in, because of two years now, Laura has never spoken back, they’ve never had conversation.

This must be a new level of insanity.

"He’s safer without me. He  _died_  because of this shit in his life,” he shoots back after a moment, voice heated and angry and he should not be speaking to Laura like this, but fuck, he can’t help himself. The only good thing about this is that Laura will not, ever, back down from him.

"Too late. Shit’s already in his life, and now it’s your job to keep him safe from it. And for Christ’s sake, Der, it’s his job to look after you, because you  _need_  looking after.”

The words aren’t mean-spirited, but they are hard and tough and she’s not ever taking his shit, not even now.

"Why can’t I just come find you?" he asks, words a sudden burst, rapid gunfire punctuating the air between them, and even he can smell the desperation emanating from him. If he expects her to soften, she doesn’t.

"Because I’m dead, and you have a mate, and a life, and if you  _ever_  throw that away, you throw away what I’ll never have, I will personally find your soul and tear it to shreds, little brother or not.”

It’s a growl by the end of it, and being a Beta again feels even better when she snarls at him, when her eyes bleed red and her fangs lengthen, and he can nod silently and submit. It’s raw, sweet relief, and it feels right. God, he’s not an Alpha. He’s so fucking glad.

In the end, he knows that what she’s saying is true, in the same way that he knows she’s not really there, and that he’s not really talking to his dead sister, just some comforting little image his own mind has cooked up for him. Once upon a time, he would have said comfort was so scarce that he’d take it wherever he could get it, whether that be from his own splintered brain or not, but now, he thinks of his family, and he knows it’s no longer true.

If he wants comfort, he knows he can go to Isaac, have the kid lay with him on the sofa and play video games, which Derek is excellent at, to the surprise of everyone but himself. He can ask Cora a few of his endless questions about their time apart, and know she’ll answer them with only a minimal amount of snark. And he knows Stiles will know exactly what is it he wants without having to ask.

“I miss you,” he tells her, in the hope that maybe this time she’ll answer him. The hard, angry look on her face morphs just slightly, and she laughs under her breath, reaching out to tangle her fingers in his hair the way she did when he was a little kid.

“I know you do, little brother. Me too,” she breathes, and he can almost smell her breath on his skin, coming out in warm puffs. He makes the mistake of closing his eyes. The moment he does, the warmth is gone, and he’s left cold and alone again. 

He isn’t sure how long he spends out in the woods on his own, but it’s dark when he returns home, slinking back into town, his tail very much between his legs. He’s half afraid that Stiles will have up and left, or that he’ll be tracked down by an angry mob wielding pitchforks, but the walk back to the loft is quiet and undisturbed. It’s beginning to snow, unseasonal for California, this time of year. It fits his mood.

When he slides the door open, a wall of warmth hits him that he’s not expecting. He hadn’t left the heat on that he can remember. It seems like it was a very long time since he was even here. He steps inside cautiously, padding on the balls of his feet, quiet and agile in search of an intruder.

Stiles is sitting on the sofa, feet curled up beneath him as he stares at the fireplace, engineered to look old and hearth-like, when really all it resembles is something trying too hard to be something it’s not. Sometimes Derek knows how it feels.

Stiles has lit the fire, that’s why it’s so warm in there, he sees now, and he hasn’t heard Derek enter. The fire casts strange little shadows on the boy’s face, dancing on skin, flickers lapping at him, and he hangs back, watching for a moment. The bruise that has blossomed on Stiles’ cheek is a mottled array of reds and purples, and yes, the fire’s making it look worse than it is, but Derek still feels guilt weigh heavy on him, the likes of which he thought he’d escaped a while back.

He knows he should say something. He should make his presence known. But if he does, he has to stop watching, and he has to start speaking, and he doesn’t trust himself not to fuck that up. If he lets the kid know he’s home, he ruins this. He ruins the fact that Stiles is here waiting for him, because if he didn’t want to see Derek, it would have been very easy to just stay home with his father.

Eventually, he shifts his feet against the concrete and the boots scrape loud, Stiles’ head snapping ‘round. Derek braces himself for anger, but there’s only relief on his face, blatant and overwhelming, and for the first time, it occurs to him that Stiles may have thought he’d left. For good. Which, he’s rather ashamed to admit, he’d considered.

“My face aches, asshole,” Stiles says finally, when Derek remains quiet, stunned stupid. “You’ve got one hell of a right hook. I’ll never underestimate your ability to smash through walls again,” he adds, and attempts a crooked half smile. Derek knows the second his lips twitch up that he is forgiven. Easily, and quickly. He’s unused to forgiveness. He’ll make his amends for months, and still not feel worthy of it.

“I’m sorry.”

Simple words, and they’re not nearly enough, but Stiles waves them off like they’re nothing, shifting a little on the sofa, a clear invitation. Derek toes his boots off carefully, leaving them sitting by the door, dripping with muddy snow, and sinks into the cushions.

“To be totally clear, I understand you didn’t mean it. But you’ll never get away with a bruise I didn’t say you could give me,” Stiles tells him, voice firm and hard, and the words are clearly rehearsed, because Derek can feel a certain squirmy nervousness to the kid’s presence.

“To be totally clear,” he echoes after a moment. “I’m not going to hurt you again. Ever.” The words are thick-laden with guilt and no small amount of grief, a little leftover seeing Laura again has given him. Stiles’ face breaks into a happy grin, only to be followed up with a wince, because his face really is beaten up.

“You may have to avoid the pack for a little while. Scott was about ready to tear you to ribbons,” the boy said lightly, as if he knew that it would never really happen.

“Understandable. Lau-  _I_  tore myself to ribbons about it, too,” he corrected, privately appalled that he’d just made that slip. He still wasn’t ready to tell Stiles. He didn’t know if he’d ever be, but that wasn’t the point.

Stiles didn’t seem to catch it, though, nodding in approval and leaning against Derek’s shoulder, yawning. “Good. As well you should have. But you can stop now. We’re all alive. We have to start acting like it,” he declared, sounding very like the conversation he’d just had. Reinforcement. Derek’s lips curved into a small smirk, one he’d forgotten he knew how to wear. Even never having met, Laura and Stiles ganged up on him, like he suspected they would.

“I’ll try,” he promised. And he would. He’d try. Maybe he’d even succeed this time.

**Author's Note:**

> The sequel to Flicker that took me incredibly too long to churn out. If you'd like to come say hey, I'm on tumblr under the same screen name.


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